


Boys of Summer

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Clam Hunting, Dean Plays Guitar, Hippie Castiel, Humor, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lake Tahoe, Light Angst, M/M, Music, Musician Dean, Naked Castiel, Naked Cuddling, Openly Bisexual Dean, References to the Beatles, Skinny Dipping, Summer, Summer Camp, Summer Love, Underage Drug Use, Water Sex, What Have I Done, clams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:50:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6407629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s eyes adjust to the sight of a boy coming toward him. His faded blue shirt sticks to him like a tongue on a frozen pole. His mocha hair’s an equal lost cause, sticking out like a hitchhiker’s thumb in every direction. “Clam hunting?” Dean says incredulously. Soon, he’s facing the alleged “hunter”, quickly catching his breath at the sight of him. Not because of his facial features, which certainly aren’t lacking unlike his pants. “Um…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt from my best friend. Six random things/words: Sunflower, peace emoji, tongue out emoji, paper, triangle, and clams. I took some liberties with the paper and the triangle.

 

Dean’s been manhandled by vampires, werewolves, ghouls, even witches. So when his father’s teeth gnash on the nape of his neck like a cub and toss him into the wild, it feels like a scrape rather than a suction or a bite—even a thousand bees swarming around his head.

The red and gradually bruising splotches on his throat will have to pass for hickeys.

"Who the fuck are you?"

The guy who dragged him from base camp, round as a square and built like a mechanical ox, throws a glare at him brighter than a lamp light as he leans forward in his chair. "Benny. Who the fuck are you?"

They continue the conversation in the form of silent rivalry until Dean's bottom lip arcs up. "...You're alright."

"Well, I'll try not to be offended," Benny drawls, Cajun twang blending into his voice like cool whip on vanilla ice cream, "You didn't answer my question."

"You didn't say pretty please." Benny glares at him through well-rounded icebergs. Dean smacks his lips, tasting only the rich, low-fat blood coating his teeth. "Nugent. Ted Nugent."

"Cut the charade, Dean."

Dean's lips purse as Benny, a beardy, busty smile gracing high cheekbones, holds up his leather wallet with the choppy block letters from the Sex Pistol’s logo. "Oh, you're _definitely_ back on my shitlist again. How—?”

"Please, you think you're the only loose screw around these parks?"  Benny scoffs, tossing the object in Dean’s lap. Dean groans. Yep, bruises there, too. "I was skinnin' pigs before I knew what bacon was."

"....I have no idea what you just said, but I take it you didn’t check under Nolte, either.” Benny’s head flops forward, staring at Dean through heavy-lidded eyes. “What? You don’t see the resemblance?” he asks, turning his head to the right to swipe his thumb over his lightly bruised jaw. If he isn’t so careful, he would’ve pricked himself on the corn-colored stubble growing there. _17 Again_ more like _Puberty’s Bitch._

"You ain't on the list, no," Benny replies, quirking a brow as he hands Dean his credentials back, "Although..."

"Although?"

Benny puts him under a microscope as his eyes take the elevator to both floors, "I can make an exception."

Dean twirls his forefinger in the air. "Lucky me."

“You almost broke a kid’s arm, Chief. You’re lucky I’m not hauling your ass out.”

It’s Dean’s turn to scoff, “Yeah, and I would’ve gotten away with it too if it weren’t for you meddling… what the hell are you guys?”

Benny rolls his eyes around the earth. “Camp counselors. Oh yeah, I almost forgot—”

Something else plops in Dean's hands as Benny stands up. It's colder than usual, but remains intact after all these years. "You stole my amulet too?!"

"No, that fell off in the fight," Benny comments before the _creak_ of the screen door, "You're welcome, by the way. And welcome to Camp Chitaqua."

***

It’s only been half a day and Dean draws the conclusion that Camp Chi- _something-or-other_ is an odd place.

For starters, _everything_ smells like a campfire, from the cabins to the cafeteria food to the toilet paper. They also wake the camp up at 7am with a trumpet—some kid who doesn’t know there are _three_ slots for pressing. At least the food, though slightly charred where meat is concerned, tastes alright.

The cabins for the Future Camp Leaders of America share a striking resemblance to something built by Boy Scouts given free range with life-size Lincoln Logs. The only thing missing from the scene are life-sized Barbie Dolls because that’s exactly what this place is: a den of pimple-popping Boy Scouts. Most of them act half their age with superhero action figures and made-up sound effects. Dean’s roommate, a scrawny white guy named Garth, happens to be one of those individuals.

Secondly, Camp Chickless sits a half a mile north of Lake Tahoe.

That’s not the odd part, though. That’s actually a pretty _awesome_ thing compared to the rest of this shithole. The odd part approaches when Dean combs through the forest on his way _to_ the sea-to-shining-turquoise-sea later that night and spots a very human figure—a boy going by their small but strong back, overlooking the scene on a boulder five times his size. Judging by the wind blowing the something-died smell his way, he’s got a joint in his right hand. His faded blue button-up balloons out at the bottom and his hair, like chocolate ice cream running down a toddler’s stubby fingers, sticks to his head.

Dean refrains from cursing as a twig snaps beneath the soles of his left boot and ducks behind a pine tree. Of course a cone has to pronounce itself with a _plop_ on Dean’s hollow head at that exact moment, and the boy swivels behind him at a measured pace, causing ashes to scatter into the lake.

“Listen, hide and seek is _not_ my forte,” the stranger quips with a voice lower than the distant water, “and from the sounds of it, you’re pretty bad at the former, so either you show yourself or I enjoy my daily skinny dip.”

Dean’s brows shoot up as the sound of clothes dropping like five-pound weights a moment later fills his ears. He snaps his head from behind the trunk, catching a glimpse of a full moon whiter than the Pillsbury Dough Boy and baked to perfection. The aimless water licks his pronounced crease, and is that a birthmark the size of a chocolate chip blanketed by the trail of hairs spiking his tailbone?

Another thing on his camp shitlist as he returns to his cabin with a heavy tail between his legs: No privacy.

***

Dean returns to the forest only because Garth has a ridiculously small bladder.

The outdoors seems much louder now. Wind shakes the low-hanging pinecones like colorless Christmas ornaments, and flightless birds pierce the sky with hyena-like guffaws. Even the ground beneath him quakes with loud _snaps_ and _crunches_ that makes Rice Krispies sound small in comparison. With that said, it’s hard to navigate the premises without accidentally sending off a distress signal.

At least the scenery is promising—a canvas dripping blues and purples and pinks into the horizon. From what little he remembers, Kansas sunrises have more depth and a bigger pallet, but the Nevada lake breathes a much more calming atmosphere compared to the restless flapping of wheat across a vast plane.

He zips up his jeans and prepares for the walk back to camp when curiosity calls him. Bypassing any possible stones or twigs, he braces a few steps forward until the shoreline sparkles in his eye. There’s no sign of the naked guy from a few days ago, but there is something bubbling just a few feet in the water. A second later, something heaves itself onto the shore. Dean lunges for his back pocket where there _would_ be a gun, had this been a case and not a punishment.

The glint of the object almost blinds him. He squints and bends down, picking up the item. It’s smooth with a saliva-like texture.

They all are, come to think of it, as he’s pelted with them.

“What the fu—?”

“Oh, sorry,” a familiar voice surfaces as they emerge from the water like Aquaman after his daily swim, “just doing a little clam hunting.”

Dean’s eyes adjust to the sight of a boy coming toward him. His faded blue shirt sticks to him like a tongue on a frozen pole. His mocha hair’s an equal lost cause, sticking out like a hitchhiker’s thumb in every direction. “ _Clam hunting?”_ Dean says incredulously. Soon, he’s facing the alleged “hunter”, quickly catching his breath at the sight of him. Not because of his facial features, which certainly aren’t lacking unlike his pants. “Um…”

The boy doesn’t seem uncomfortable in the least. In fact, he goes out of his way to _bend down,_ retrieving the greyish-brown clams (cockles? Is there a difference?) from the shore. His ass is just as pearly last he saw it, unlike his long legs, tanner than a horse and definitely easier to climb onto—

Dean shifts his gaze to the rapidly rising sun.

“Oh wow, I’m being totally rude,” the boy says a minute later, lending out his hand as he stands up, “Castiel.”

Dean fails at keeping his eyes ‘up here’ as he warily grabs the offered hand. “Dean. So what’s the deal, do you just really hate clothes or something?”

A laugh escapes Castiel’s full pink lips, a sound that ripples the water and other unknown territory, “No. I just believe the body’s a sound instrument that hasn’t been fully tested on accessibility. Also, pants are highly constricting when clam hunting. Want to join?”

“Uh,” Dean says carefully, “no, I think I’ll pass.”

Castiel just shrugs, tossing the clams one by one back into the lake. “Suit yourself.”

Dean can’t help the laugh that escapes him as he plops himself onto the rocks.

***

“Aren’t you gonna ask me how I got here?” Dean asks after his fifth failed text from his iPod.

The screen is his enemy, blinking back at him like a time bomb: _I’m safe. at some weird camp. ~~can’t hike home, not now, u know what dad’ll do~~_ (That last part didn’t make the cut after the second attempt.)

Dean pockets the item with a huff. He’d have better luck finding signal on top of the Eiffel Tower.

Castiel, sitting next to him with his legs outstretched (with pants, thankfully), shrugs with a newly rolled joint in his hand. “You’re here now. Isn’t that what matters?”

On a whim, Dean grabs Castiel’s shoulder still wet from his adventure an hour ago and faces him dead-on. “Cas, don’t ever change.” Castiel grins gummily, high on nothing but the fishy air washing over them. They don’t say anything for a while, surprisingly content with the silence. Then, Dean asks, “So, do you live here?”

“On the lake, you mean?”

“Yeah, on the lake.”

“Yeah, sort of,” Cas replies, taking a hit, “I’m a bit more nomadic than your average Boy Scout.”

Dean purses his head to the side. “Meaning?”

“One of the camp counselors, Daphne, she found me right over there during a field day,” Cas says, nodding his head towards a small rock island a quarter mile east. “I had no recollection of how anything—just that I was cold and hungry. I didn’t even remember my own _name_. Daphne named me Castiel, after the Angel of Thursday, the day she found me. Ever since, I’ve been living here, occasionally voyaging to camp.”

“Wow.” Dean pauses, resting the flat of his freckled arms on his knees. “So you’re a hippie?”

Cas chuckles, full-bodied and free, “If you prefer labels, yes. I suppose I am.”

“And if I don’t?”

Cas drops his head so only the vibrant blue of his eyes peer up at Dean. “Then I’m just a person.”

“Okay,” Dean says, cracking a small smile, “then if you’re _not_ a hippie, do you believe in a higher power?”

Nose scrunching like an old rubber band, Cas says, “Not exactly.”

Dean’s eyebrows teeter-totter on his forehead trying to grapple with the information presented to him. "Doesn't that shake some salt on the whole Sergeant Pepper persona?"

Cas faces him with narrowed brows. "I believe in the bees, Dean."

".... Okay,” Dean replies unsurely, shifting to stare at the rocks.

"Do you?"

"Do I... what?"

"Do you believe in God?"

Dean’s emerald eyes flitter from Cas to his hands, then back at the horizon. The colors are fading out now—no, not fading, transitioning, into a pale yellow. The sun pokes out from underneath the haze, waving hello at the two boys. "I do, yeah,” he says. He strains to hear the sound of said Boy Scouts in the distance, but instead accepts the offered joint, drawing a long hit. “I'm just not sure he believes in us."

He rescues his phone from his pocket and chances another glance at the screen.

_Message unsent_

***

Dean doesn’t return to the forest as soon as he’d like. Camp Chitaqua has strict regulations about getting to and from classes and participating in at least one club. Dean feels pressure as heavy as the sun’s duty to rise in the morning being the outsider amongst a group of “bright young alpha males”.

While raking his brain to pick a club late one night, his thoughts drift to Robin—the first girl he fell in love with a little over a year ago at a boy’s home after a few guitar lessons.  That’s when it hits him: Band is the perfect alternative. Sure, there’s most likely gonna be an even mix of pompous assholes, but Dean’s hunted worse. Besides, he knows how to play the riff to “Carry On My Wayward Son”. What else do you possibly need?

He passes Benny on the way to said club, who just gives him a sly grin.

He also not so figuratively bumps into someone with his guitar on the way to lunch. He _almost_ recognizes it as Cas had it not been for the thing smothering Cas’s jaw.

“Whoa… Cas?! What the hell is _that?”_ he laughs, making the conscientious decision to sling the guitar over his shoulder, out of the way of other bypassers.

Cas scratches his beard impishly, grinning. “I can’t be sure. It might be a squirrel.”

“Nice peace fuzz, man,” he comments, knocking the startled animal. “So why are you here today?”

“Just needed to stretch my legs.”

“Oh jeez, now you sound like my brother.”

Cas tilts his head to the side. “You have a brother?”

“Little, yeah, he’s—” Dean cuts his thoughts short when suddenly his iPod feels heavier in the pocket of his grey hoodie somehow. “Anyway, I’m just coming back from Band.”

"Oh cool, I love music."

"Really? What do you listen to?"

"Well, I'm fond of Jefferson Starship—"

"Oh no. Mmnhn,” Dean interjects, waving his hands in the air, “I know you like to get your hands across the sky, Uncle Albert, but Starship has _got_ to go.”

"Why? I find them enjoyable."

"Yeah, when you're on LSD."

Cas crosses his arms over his chest. "The Beatles did LSD, too, you know."

"McCartney smoked _pot_ ,” Dean says, chuckling.

"Alright, rock star, you've made your point,” he concedes, surrendering to Dean’s almighty knowledge in the music world with a light shove to his chest. “What do you suppose we do about my musical deficiency?”

“I’ll meet you in the same place tonight an hour after lights out. You better be ready to rock or I’m gonna roll.”

“You better, it is _my_ house, after all,” Cas says, tossing him a wink. “See you then.”

Despite several eyewitnesses, Dean denies _ever_ looking at Cas’s backside as he struts away.

***

As promised, Dean gives Cas, novice music aficionado he is, a hell of a show. With the night sky sparkling to the tune of the spherical Swiss cheese in the sky and the water lightly licking the rocky shore, the acoustics are top notch. Cas’s lightly stained but extra gummy smile may have thrown him off a few times during the chorus of “Hey Jude”, but he helped with most of the harmony, making for a quick recovery.

Around the time Dean breaks into a passionate cacophony of “nah nah nah nah”’s, Cas stands up, facing the lake just before he drops his jeans.

Dean’s guitar comes to a screeching halt as he laughs, “I know it’s your lifelong dream to be in a nudist colony, but it’s very rude to interrupt a guy while he’s serenading you.”

“But the _clams,_ Dean,” he emphasizes, testing the water with his big toe. “They’re sleeping this time of night. We have to catch them right now in order to have a better chance at—”

“Wait, _we?”_

Cas waddles back to Dean and tugs on his arm. “Deeeaaannn, come on,” he prods, pulling him forward, “it’s so much fun. Plus, you’ll have a bigger audience once we’re done.” Cas winks at that last statement.

“Is this like your weird version of cow tipping?”

Cas laughs, “You and your labels, Dean.”

And fuck, Dean can’t resist the way the moonlight’s hitting Cas’s back, illuminating his ragdoll look as he playfully groans, “Ugh, fine. But I for one _respect_ my belt, thank you.”

“And so will the clams.”

“ _What?!”_

“Nothing,” Cas preens as his hands continually climb Dean’s arm like it’s made of vine, “Absolutely nothing. Let’s go hunting!”

Dean has easier times catching vamps in _broad daylight_ compared to this. Dean’s on one side of the lake, sticking his arms in and out of the water like a damn fishing line. The only difference is _he’s_ the one up to his knees in water and his bait’s shriveling like a prune. When he finally clutches something, he nearly glories. Until he holds it up to the moon and identifies it as a rock.

Cas, on the other hand, every time Dean glances over, the crook of his arm is bigger. Dean chucks the rock. The damn thing doesn’t even skip for all his troubles.

“You suck, you know that?” he calls, turning around. Cas’s shirt rises up just slightly in the back, exposing a thin strip of skin equivalent in appearance to a horizontal cheese strip: many layers too good to just bite into.

Cas turns around too, grinning with his prizes, “Wait until you get a load of those leeches.”

“ _What?!”_

“Nothing,” Cas repeats, laughing as he closes the distance between them. His smile doesn’t fade as Dean gulps loud enough to shake the Pacific. It’s so quiet Dean can hear Cas’s heartbeat: _lub lub lub lublublub…_ His heart repeats the same pattern as his eyes drop to Castiel’s lips—a plump, pink landslide waiting to claim its next victim. Cas’s are on Dean’s eyes, conveying something almost like a promise. “Absolutely… nothing.”

Dean’s not sure who lunges first, but their lips dance a heated tango, slowing down only to catch their breaths and peel the other’s shirts off. The taste of Cas sparks his tongue, fish and freedom and all other good things in this world and not even when Cas’s hand strays south, cupping Dean’s hardness and stroking once at a slow but satiating measure, does Dean break away—but Cas does.

And with it, he pulls a single clam from the water:

“Looks like you caught one after all.”

***

Cas lives in a cave under the lake. It’s cold and wet, practically oozing toxic waste from the pores. The smell assaults the nose like a double-edged dagger, irritating each individual nose hair. Basically imagine a vagina stuffed with sewage and that’s the greeting walking in. The unswerving drip of the water from the ceiling—if you could even call it that; it’s more of a tarp, really—keeps the heaviest sleepers awake at night.

At least the bedding is comfortable.

That is, if you’re lying on top of the owner.

Dean’s not sure what time he wakes up, but one thing’s evident judging from the scene: If he isn’t already thinking about it, Cas is definitely going to have to invest in a new shirt.

He smiles, shifting their positions so Cas lies on top of him, careful not to wake him. He’s just as careful carding his fingers through his dirt-encrusted hair. Cas tickles his ribcage snoring lightly into Dean’s naked chest—in fact, Dean’s naked everything by the looks of it—and Dean tries not to laugh

They stay like this for a few minutes until somewhere the distance, a trumpet sounds off a string of spit-slick notes. It takes Dean a moment to recognize the tune, and then he’s scrambling upright.

“Shit, shit, shit…”

Cas stirs awake, rubbing the graininess out of his bleary eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“The trumpet went off,” Dean says hastily, plucking his shirt and underwear from the rocks. “Count’s in ten.”

Every pore on Cas’s face stretches wide. “ _Shit_ ,” he agrees, hurriedly tossing him his guitar. The beige trunk has a long scratch running through it, but that’s the least of his concerns. His pants, where are his pants?? “Do I get a goodbye, at least?”

Time slows as Dean’s shoulders fall and a smile graces his lips. He bends down, capturing his lips in a chaste but chasing kiss before he shrugs on his shirt. Screw pants, they’re too constricting anyway. “Not a goodbye,” he promises, “only a see you soon.”

Dean catches sight of that big, gummy smile once more before he crawls out of the crevice. He’s halfway to base camp, running as fast as he can without being scalded by the rocks and the gravel, when a familiar voice beckons his attention:

“Dean?”

Dean’s head nearly snaps off twisting around. “Sammy?”

Sam, in all his five-foot frame and ten-foot hair glory, laughs giddily, “Oh my God. I can’t believe I actually found you, and… what are you wearing? Or _not_ wearing?”

Dean drops the guitar and crowds into Sam’s personal space with a hug that could suffocate a bear. Sam returns the embrace just as enthusiastically, the smell of peppermint and _Axe_ deodorant pervading Dean’s nostrils like a strong memory—one he thought he’d have to keep rather than the real thing.

He pulls back, checking Sam for any signs of bruising like the kind he got dropped off with two weeks before.

Just as quick, he slaps him upside the head. “What the hell are you thinking?!”

Sam staggers back, “Um, _ow,”_ he retorts sharply, rubbing his newly aching head, “I’m here to save you. Superman to your Batman, remember?”

“Everyone knows Batman can’t fly,” Dean says, crossing his arms. “How did you get here, Sam?”

“Dean, I don’t care if you stole a loaf of bread, or a jar or peanut butter—”

“Sam.”

“Or if you sent some bastard to the ICU, he deserved it anyway—”

“ _Sam,_ ” Dean growls, “how did you get here?”

Sam throws his head to the ground, mumbling, “Bobby’s waiting in the car.”

Bobby, Dean thinks. Of course the kid would rat to their pseudo uncle. His wrath isn’t anywhere near their dad’s, but he has the bite of a Pitbull if you so much as touch a hair on his balding head. “You know what’ll happen if I go into that car, Sammy. You know what Dad’ll do.”

“Dad doesn’t have to know,” Sam replies, inching closer. “You can stay with Bobby as long as you need—as long as it takes for this whole thing to blow over—”

“ _Blow over?”_ Dean scoffs, “Sam, I almost cost a kid’s _life_ because of you. He could be dying as I speak, and you go and call up Bobby thinking he’s the only person on the planet who hasn’t sworn allegiance to Dad?”

Sam sighs, “Dean, just c’mon. You’re just tired and talking out of your ass right now—”

“I am not!” Dean cries, tears spilling like a glacier from his eyes, “Do you ever stop to think that I could have a life outside of hunting, huh? Or a life outside of defending your ass—”

“I never asked you to defend me.”

“Don’t you get it? I’m your _brother,_ Sammy,” Dean says, tearing through his hair like a rake scooping up broken leaves, “It’s my job. 24/7 it’s, ‘Watch out for Sammy, boy’ and ‘Don’t let your brother out of your sight, you ‘ere?’ Never _once_ has anybody asked if I’m okay. Not. Once.

Then Dad dumps me here and my mind’s fucking reeling with the same damn thing, ‘Why didn’t you watch out for Sammy?’, ‘Why did you let your brother out of your sight?’ And I’m thinking this place has to be the worst punishment of them all: I’m stuck with a bunch of kids who look like you and talk like you and act like you and then _finally_ …”

He doesn’t even realize Sam’s staring at him through wide hazel eyes. His eyes are too clouded with another potential rainstorm. “What?”

“Nothing,” he sighs hopelessly, sucking in all his snot like a vacuum cleaner. He looks back at the lake and, before walking off with his brother, says, _“Absolutely nothing.”_

 

 

 

 


End file.
